


Just Lay in the Atmosphere

by vegansheilseitan



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical References to Depression, Canon Typical References to Suicide, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, Light BDSM, M/M, References to Drugs, WIP, gratuitous references to buzzfeed, no beta we die like men, unintentional infidelity but still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegansheilseitan/pseuds/vegansheilseitan
Summary: “How do you make a documentary about novel-writing anyway? Who wants to watch a half hour of me staring at a word document, eating bagel-bites, and occasionally Googling something about, like, the stages of body decomp? How is that entertaining?”Quentin is a YA Author, Eliot is a FuzzBeat producer. They're forced to spend a week together when Eliot get's stuck making a video about Quentin's non-existent new novel. Things get complicated when they each realize they slept together three years ago.





	1. Hey Editor, I'm Undeniable. Hey Doctor, I'm Certifiable.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little bit of a love letter to YA fiction, ~~BuzzFeed~~ FuzzBeat videos, and victorian houses that got a little out of control.  
> Just a warning, this will have a lot of explicit discussion of depression, past suicide attempts/suicidal thoughts, and alcohol/substance abuse and recovery. Also light BDSM, because why not?  
> It's also a WIP because I don't have the self control to not post before I finish things.  
> Title is from _Casual Affair_ by Panic at the Disco and chapter title is from _Disloyal Order of Water Buffalos_ by Fall Out Boy, because I'm emo trash and I can't name anything without song lyrics, apparently

Quentin stares at his screen.

The screen stares back at Quentin. 

His hands hover over the keys but the screen keeps resolutely refusing to manifest words in front of him. He sighs, pressing his hands into his eyes, tired despite three cups of coffee and the fact that it’s just past eleven in the morning.

Writing is _hard_.

Which he knew, obviously. In theory. But it never had been hard _for him_. 

He used to sit down and write and write and it would come so easily, like his hands almost couldn’t type fast enough to get the words out. Even when he couldn’t make a plot work, or a piece of dialog felt clunky he could always power through and it would just _work out_ eventually even if it took him coming back to the same scene over and over. Even what he wrote wasn’t _good_ , he could at least _make words happen on paper_.

It’s frustrating beyond belief. He knows what’s supposed to happen. Well, vaguely, but he’s written way more on way less before and he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him now.

He moves from staring at the screen to staring at the wall. His office is nice, objectively. Alice had made him hire a decorator for the whole house when he bought it and this space in particular had been his favorite. 

He thinks at one point it had been a sitting room or a den of some sort; not a bedroom, judging by the huge, glass-paneled French doors that lead into it. _Unfortunately, not original to the house_ , the realtor had told him, like he knew anything about interior design or Victorian architecture. The lush floor-to-ceiling curtains make the room feel tall and open without blocking too much of the light from the east-facing window. The walls are a soft grey, which Quentin had thought would be too depressing for a room he was supposed to spend hours in every day, but it’s neutral and soothing. The white bead board and wainscoting brighten up the room a lot and the pops of color placed throughout keep it from being to monochrome. 

He loves the overstuffed, barely-lavender couch with too many throw pillows that all inevitably end up the floor whenever he sits there and the enormous multi-colored pastel rug covering dark hardwood floors; the shelves filled with row upon row of books and trinkets. The decorator had even framed all of the posters that he’d left in storage after college, plus a few magazine and newspaper prints, reviews of his novels. The _New York Times_ piece in particular has a central spot on the wall, professionally placed to draw the eye.

Not that anyone but Quentin is ever in the office. He doesn’t entertain much, and he certainly doesn’t do it from his study. (He’d told Alice as much, that it seemed self-congratulatory to hang praise for his work in a place only he would ever see. She’d just given him a look. _That_ look. The one he’d seen a lot of in the months leading up to them falling apart.)

The focal point of the room, though, is his writing desk with the enormous comfy chair, —one of the few things Quentin had picked out himself, spending days running between furniture stores looking for the perfect one. He bought and returned three before he found this one, a soft dark grey monstrosity that didn’t flow with the rest of the room at all. But it kept him from hunching over his laptop and it was big enough to curl his whole body into.

It’s a space he loves. Designed to stimulate, to keep him from feeling trapped and stifled and falling into his own head.

It isn’t working.

He’s behind schedule, _way_ behind. His first draft should have been done months ago and it’s _barely_ halfway there —and he knows more than half of writing a novel is in the editing; if you ask him, he’d go so far as to say _Eliza’s_ name should be on the cover instead of his— but it’s garbage. 

It’s the worst thing he’s written in years, easily. Maybe the worst thing he’s ever written.

The plot is there, as much as anything else. At least a series of events, cause and effect. But there’s no _narrative_ coming out of the woodwork. He can’t find a theme or a motif or more than a modicum of symbolism to run with. He can’t even manage to develop the shit he’s trying to intentionally bury in there.

He’s used to his brain not working. Waking up one morning and just not having the will to move anymore. Weeks of slowly losing focus, losing interest, feeling like there just wasn’t a point anyway so why try even if he wanted to. 

But even when he didn’t have the motivation, _the will_ to write, his brain didn’t just stop like this. 

He’s used to his brain not working, like, _chemically_. He’s not used to his brain just refusing to… _brain_.

* * *

Eliot doesn’t generally read young-adult fantasy novels. Or fantasy novels. Or _novels_ really. 

Margo would say he doesn’t read _period_ , but that’s an oversimplification. He didn’t read in school because being told to read something utterly saps the enjoyment out of it, no one can even try to fight him on that.

Mostly when he reads he reads screenplays —a holdover from the reading he _did_ do in film school— or poetry. Occasionally he commits to a short story anthology but any prose much longer tends to lose his focus. 

He’s a visual person, has always favored film as his preferred storytelling medium as a creator and consumer. But this project came with some required reading and a paycheck was a better reading incentive than a letter grade at the end of the day. So Eliot had left a note on his desk that he could be found in a comfy chair in the FuzzBeat lounge and cracked open the debut novel by a mister Quentin Coldwater —a pen name he is _not_ impressed with.

This was supposed to be Margo’s project —YA lit content was really more one of her niches and she’d done most of the legwork; pitched the project and everything— but there was some scheduling snafu that landed the production dates in the middle of her vacation—

(“I gave them _two fucking weeks_ that were off limits, El. They have a goddamn calendar year when I can shoot this shit. I don’t care how big this dickhole’s ego is, the deposit for this retreat is non-refundable, he can go fuck himself.”)

—and as he’s currently niche-less (and also _the only god damn person I trust to not fuck this up, El_ ) he had subtly been volun-told to take over.

So the mini-documentary/interview (“Documenterview!” “We are _not_ calling it that, Hoberman.”) project on Coldwater was Eliot’s primary focus for the time being which was… weird. 

Usually he had three or four videos in the works at a time, minimum. Everyone did. But apparently someone at the publishing house knew someone on high at FuzzBeat and was pretty hell-bent on this publicity. So his workload had been cleared —not that there’d been a lot on it in the first place, since his _sabbatical_ , mostly just some stuff in pre-production that could be shifted to another producer or put on hold _—_ to spend the whole week reading novels. Which, honestly, neither the strangest nor most unpleasant thing he’s had to do for this job, so he’s considering it paid time off.

The books —well _book_ so far— aren’t bad, not that Eliot is really familiar with the YA content standards. He didn’t even read young adult fiction when he _was_ a young adult. But it’s not the pulpy, twilight-knock-off, teenage drivel he was expecting. 

He’s only about a third of the way through Coldwater’s first novel, scribbling notes in the margins and occasionally breaking to type notes on themes that might make good interview questions, but it’s decidedly more than just _readable_. 

It checks out on some level, Eliot knows the guy’s books are pretty popular. Maybe not the next Harry Potter, but even Eliot had recognized the author’s name. Vaguely remembers his last novel a few years back had topped the bestseller list for _months_ and has some kind of movie deal that’s been stuck in studio limbo forever. 

According to the jacket on his debut, it had gotten a lot of praise and a few pretty snazzy award nominations even before he was on the public radar. He gets now why Margo was so invested in the project, she has an eye for drops of talent in the flood of pop culture. 

Curious, he flips to the back inside jacket to find the _About the Author_. He’s semi-intentionally been avoiding Googling the guy. Writers are either incredibly boring or absolute train wrecks in Eliot’s experience, and he’d wanted to read at least some of Coldwater’s work before seeing which side of the coin he fell on and it colored his take on the writing.

He’s expecting to find a picture of some middle aged balding guy, because isn’t that every novelist? Either a dead guy or someone’s retired English teacher? 

When he sees the photo, though —a boring black-and-white portrait of a guy, much younger than he’d expected, with longish hair and an awkward smile, like he didn’t want to be posing for the photo— he drops the book entirely.

“ _Fuck_ ,”

* * *

“Do I have to do this?” he’s asked about a dozen times in the last six months, but he figures one more time won’t hurt.

“Yes, _Quentin_ , you do,” Penny replies, the same way he did the last eleven times.

“How _the fuck_ are they supposed to document my _“process”-”_ he includes the air quotes despite the fact that Penny can’t see him because the asshole doesn’t have an iPhone like everyone else in the free world and can’t FaceTime him, “-if I can’t _write anything_?”

They’ve had this argument —he and Penny, he and Eliza, he and Zelda, he and _Julia,_ because even _she’s_ not on his side— enough times already that Penny just lets him rant, “How do you make a documentary about novel-writing anyway? Who wants to watch a half hour of me staring at a word document, eating bagel-bites, and occasionally Googling something about, like, the stages of body decomp? How is that entertaining?”

Penny sighs, probably wishing he was the publicist for anyone other than Quentin right now, and painstakingly says, _again_ , “Think of it more as a combination interview-biography than a literal documentary. Your bagel-bite footage won’t be the focus, I guarantee you. This is why Zelda called in a favor with FuzzBeat, this kind of thing hasn’t really been done before and they’re all about avant-garde media.”

“So I’m up there with _Men Try Skincare for a Week_ now? That’s what’s passing for avant-garde these days?” he would be offended, but he’s still stuck on why anyone would care to watch him write a novel, let alone _completely fail_ to write a novel.

“They do other shit, Quentin, do you not go on YouTube like ever?” which is a question Penny should know the answer to already because he knows Quentin well enough to guess his YouTube subscriptions are pretty limited to like D&D campaigns, a few edutainment channels, and that one hair stylist who reacts to people frying their hair off with boxed bleach.

He’s pacing around his living room now, “Not to watch _FuzzBeat videos_ , Penny, jeez. Enough people make fun of me on the internet as it is, I don’t get how it’s good publicity to feed into it by working with the lowest caliber of corporate content-manufacturing. They already think I’m some mediocre, fake-deep nobody pandering empty bullshit to nerdy teens-”

Penny cuts off the spiral to the depths of his self-esteem, “The film crew will be here in two days. They’ll film for five. Then they’ll leave. In _a week_ you can forget about all of this and go back to refusing interviews to your heart’s content. A week, Quentin. Can you stop whining for that long and let us do our jobs?”

Quentin sighs, “I can’t _write_ , Penny. What the fuck am I supposed to tell them about a novel that I’m not sure I’ll even finish?”

“Better get working then and figure it out,” the same as the last eleven times, Penny is resolute.

Quentin sighs for what feels like the thousandth time on this phone call alone, “Whatever. Who’s running the project anyway? Zelda said there was some confusion.”

He hears papers shuffling on Penny’s end, “Um, it was supposed to be Margo Hanson, one of their go-to’s for pop culture review.”

That doesn’t sound good, “What do you mean ‘supposed to be’?”

“We pushed it back as much as we could to give your ass more time to write-” Quentin winced at that. Penny might not be his favorite person, but he did look out for Quentin, “- and she had a conflict with the new dates, apparently. Prior engagement. So now it’s a guy she recommended. Not his usual thing but she vouched for him personally. Name’s Eliot Waugh.”

* * *

Eliot is not _pouting_ like Harriet had accused. Pouting implies he’s being immature, sulking like a little kid when they don’t get their way.

He’s _frustrated_ because Harriet won’t be reasonable and let him pass this ‘documenterview’ off to Victoria or Benedict or even _Todd_. He’s also pissed because she’d rejected every pitch he made for other projects he could be working on, at least partially just out of spite, he’s sure.

He’s _not_ pouting, he just doesn’t want to spend the rest of today and tomorrow reading Quentin Coldwater’s entire body of work and all of Sunday finalizing the shooting schedule, and then spend _five consecutive days_ asking the guy personal questions from two feet away _in his house._

He’s a _film maker_ by trade, he’d argued. Victoria studied journalism, she’s clearly way more suited to interviews. But Harriet wouldn’t budge. She just told him to forward the shooting schedule to Josh’s crew and Q- _Coldwater’s_ people as soon as he’s done with it.

He wishes for the billionth time that week that Margo wasn’t at some retreat halfway across the world in Bali, or at least that she wasn’t completely _unplugged_ and he could at least berate her via WhatsApp for doing this to him. 

He considers calling Kady, in Margo’s absence, but that’s not really their relationship. And calling his _sponsor_ at work just to bitch feels like abusing the twelve steps a little too much, because, yeah, of course he wants a few lines and a fucking martini right now but like, no more than usual.

The whole situation is a mild inconvenience at worst, if he can handle running into his old _dealer_ at the deli, he can handle this little bump in the road. He resolves to distract himself with the rest of Coldwater’s second novel. 

He just really has to commit to the whole _death of the author_ thing for as long as possible and everything will be _fine_. Absolutely fine.

He texts Kady. 

Then he settles into the safety of his comfy lounge chair, letting himself have too many of the misshapen leftover macarons the food division had dropped off from one of their shoots.

* * *

“Everything is fine,” Quentin tells himself while doing his best to pace a hole in his floor. He’d spent the last three days frantically cleaning his house, trying and failing to write more than a few pages a day, and watching every video Eliot Waugh had ever produced or featured in for FuzzBeat.

One of those may have taken up a more disproportionate amount of his time than the other two.

He feels like an absolute dumbass. He hadn’t thought anything of it when Penny told him the name. He didn’t recognize it at all, why would he? Eliot is a common enough name. 

But a quick Google search had _very quickly_ thrown off his plans for the rest of the weekend.

He’d itemized his _List of Problems with Eliot Waugh_ in the following way:

1\. Almost his entire production portfolio seems to consist of videos where people get intoxicated and try various foods and/or activities ( _Drunk vs. High: Drag Makeup Challenge_ had been especially entertaining; he was reluctantly starting to understand why these videos were so popular)

2\. He hasn’t made or been in _anything_ at all in the last couple months

3a. Somewhat in the face of 1 and 2, he has a _massive_ fan base of people who would probably watch him read a phone book and still leave thirsty comments on the video

3b. There will thus _definitely_ be a huge audience watching Quentin embarrass himself regardless of their interest in his books.

4\. Quentin has seen him naked

That last one he didn’t learn from Google, but he’s including it on the Problem List for completeness.

So now it's Monday morning, he’s been up almost all night with his Problem List, and he has about an hour before Eliot arrives with a camera crew at his house.

He tried calling Julia, but she has a real job and doesn’t answer her cell phone at 10am on a Monday. Even after so many years, he still forgets that most of his friends work regular business hours. 

So he’d texted her _Emergency, Jules, call me ASAP_ quickly followed up with _Like a normal friendship emergency, not a brain chemistry emergency_ and is trying to be patient and not call her at work because she really likes her job and she’s angling for a promotion that would get her out of a cubicle.

He selfishly hopes she doesn’t have some kind of meeting or presentation that’s going to occupy her all morning. He and Alice are back on tenuously friendly terms, but he would throw himself into a volcano before he called her with this (if she didn’t throw him in first) which basically means his only other option right now is _Penny_ and it’s a conversation their professional relationship is not set up for.

His phone does eventually ring, thankfully before he completely spirals, “Jules, thank God,”

“Is everything okay? I thought you had the interview thing starting today?” and he _really_ should have called her days ago when he realized that Eliot Waugh was _that_ Eliot. But the whole _Eliot Thing_ is still a sore subject in their friend group and he’d been in a YouTube spiral rather than an anxiety spiral and he’d really thought he could handle this better.

“Yeah that’s…. kind of the problem. The guy they’re sending from FuzzBeat is kind of- well not kind of he _is_ \- do you remember Eliot?” he takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out.

Finally, she says “Eliot from high school or _Eliot_ -Eliot?” 

By her tone she knows the answer already. He doesn’t even remember going to high school with an Eliot.

“ _Eliot_ -Eliot?” he confirms anyway. It comes out as a question.

“Best-sex-of-your-life, guy-you-cheated-on-Alice-with _Eliot?_ ” he winces at the judgement in her tone and resolves to get a new best friend as soon as his current series of crises is over.

“We were on a _break_ ,” he tries not to feel like fucking _Ross_ as he says it because Ross is a sexist dickwad and Quentin may have chronically low self-esteem but even he knows that he’s _better than that_ , “But yeah. _That_ Eliot. Apparently the world is just that small and it hates me. Help.”

“Fuck, is it too late to cancel?” she sounds about as hopeful as he feels.

“He’s supposed to be with a camera crew in-” he checks the clock on the stove, “less than twenty minutes, so yeah. Do I just like pretend I don’t remember him? Do I acknowledge it? Do I introduce myself like we haven’t met? What if he doesn’t even remember and I get to sit here for five days confronted with the fact that I’m like completely forgettable, sexually-”

“Breathe, Q. Just follow his lead and don’t make a big deal out of it. This is a professional situation, so just act professional,” God bless Julia for always knowing what to say.

“Professional. Right. I can do that.” he breathes, tries not to catastrophize. 

“I hate to leave you hanging, but I have a meeting in five. Call me back tonight after they leave?” she does sound legitimately sorry.

“Yeah, Jules, I will. Thank you.”

* * *

Josh drives like an absolute maniac and it is _terrifying_ , but at least it keeps Eliot’s mind distracted from the impending awkwardness. And if they die in a fiery wreck, at least Eliot won’t have to deal with it _period_ , so it’s not a bad situation to be in, overall.

There’s four of them in the van today and Eliot is thankful he’ll have three buffers for the initial meeting at least. He’s glad he mostly blocked out today to film the house and look at lighting setups for the rest of the week, so at least there shouldn’t be too much _talking_.

He can’t even articulate what he’s so worked up about, it’s not like this will be his first time working a project with someone he’s slept with. It’s not even his first time working with someone he was kind of a dick to after he slept with them. Even at the best of times, his policy about not jizzing where he eats is relatively lax. 

He wishes Margo were here. Partially so that he wouldn’t have to be, but also because she understands his feelings without him having to explain them. In her absence, things get far too introspective for his tastes.

They arrive on time, which is far too soon for Eliot’s liking. Coldwater’s house is a moderately-sized updated Victorian. Not too huge by today’s standards, but probably downright ostentatious when it was built. It’s clearly been renovated, though. Eliot’s no architect, but the porch is definitely in far too good a condition to not have been replaced, and the windows look like they’re storm-rated and energy efficient.

God, he has to be stalling if he’s thinking about the god damn _windows_ right now. He’s been admiring the architecture for long enough that most of the equipment is unloaded. Resigned, he grabs a bag to help carry up to the house.

He doesn’t have the option to hang back once they get to the door. He’s the lead on the project, which unfortunately means he can’t try to fade into the background.

He knocks.

Quentin looks different than Eliot remembers when he answers the door, different than the pictures Eliot saw on google too. 

He’s pretty sure his hair is longer now than it was, judging by the way he has it pulled back in a bun, a few pieces hanging free to frame his face in a way that is probably unintentional on Quentin’s part. It makes Eliot want to hug whoever cuts his hair for knowing exactly how well it would frame his jaw.

“Hi, Eliot,” the words are casual, professional, but Quentin swallows nervously immediately after saying them.

“Quentin,” the name feels weird in his mouth. 

_My friends call me Q_ , he’d said _._ But then, they weren’t quite friends.

After a moment too long, he finally says, “This is our filming crew, Josh, Gemma, and Maggie,” 

“Uh, hi. Um, come on in.”


	2. Interlude: You Can Lay with Me So It Doesn't Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years ago, Quentin met Eliot at a gala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This was actually already written when I posted the first chapter but I wasn't sure if I wanted to include it now or after the next piece and that took a while to work out.  
> Initially, I wasn't going to flashback at all, but I wrote this just so I could know what happened and then I just... kept writing flashback scenes so this is going to be like 40X longer than I thought, I guess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> title is from Sam Smith's _Stay With Me_ because I'm restraining myself with the pop punk lyrics

_Three years ago_

Quentin, as a rule, dislikes any social gatherings larger than ten people. He spent most of his college years dragged to parties by Julia, who seemed to think _more exposure_ was the key to curing Quentin’s social ineptitude.

He’s not in college anymore but Julia is still dragging him to parties. Except instead of cheap handles of grain alcohol and kegs, there’s a top-shelf open bar and instead of a frat house, it’s held in an enormous hotel ballroom. And maybe it’s unfair to say Julia is dragging him when it’s an event for _his_ career that he invited her to, but she did stop him from backing out at the last moment, so he’s keeping that one.

Despite the event’s lack of similarities to a standard college party, Quentin feels exactly the same. He should be in his element here. He’s an author. A _successful_ author. He’s had three books on the _New York Times_ bestseller list, his most recent is somehow still there again this week. This is an industry gathering —he knows someone told him what it was for at some point but he cannot remember to save his life— so he’s ostensibly surrounded by like minds; writers, photographers, journalists, all manner of creatives. 

These are people he can talk to, who accept his quirks and interests as par for the course and maybe close-up magic wouldn’t be a conversation starter, but European art house and obscure fantasy would be safe topics.

Except every time he’s introduced himself to someone, they’ve only wanted to talk about his fucking book.

And Quentin just… doesn’t know how to deal with that. He vacillates between being overjoyed that people appreciate his work, feeling _seen_ finally, and feeling entirely fraudulent, vulnerable, and unworthy of the praise. 

Even before the entire country was talking about his work, it had made him deeply uncomfortable when _anyone_ —other than maybe Eliza and even then only after _years_ of her being his editor— tried to _talk_ to him about it. 

It always feels like someone has seen his nudes and wants to _analyze_ his exposed body with him right there to say _why yes that scar is from when I fell off a swing when I was 7, good guess_.

So needless to say, his idea of a fun night is not being trapped in a room with people he should get along with where the only topic of conversation is the mortifying ideal of being known.

“I need another drink,” he tells Julia after yet another chat where, at best, he’d come off as an egotistical asshole and at worst, an anticlimactic, barely-literate, social disappointment.

She gives him a look, different than the one she used to give him at parties in college. _That_ look had been some rendition of _this can be fun if you just try_. 

This one has a lot more sympathy to it, an understanding, “I’ll go so no one ambushes you at the bar. Another beer?”

This is why he loves her, “Something stronger?” 

Julia nods, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. Not for the first time, he’s glad he didn’t bring Alice. She hates these things almost as much as he does, but that didn’t stop it from becoming an argument when he told her he was bringing Julia as his plus one. Everything seems to be an argument lately and he doesn’t know why. It’s like everything they do pisses each other off, intentionally or otherwise. 

She travels too much. _He works from home when he’s not promoting a novel, why doesn’t he go with her if it bothers him?_ Why did she turn down the position that would keep her in the city? _He doesn’t get to dictate her career._ She can’t pretend like it doesn’t affect him too. _Not everything is about him._ Nothing seems to be about _them_.

And so on.

He loves her. They love each other. That’s probably the only reason they keep coming back together, trying to make things work again and again. He’d bought the house last year thinking it would be _their house_ even though they both spent more time than not away on business. A few months ago he was looking at rings again and now he’s pretty sure they’re on a break. 

“You look lonely,” a voice snaps Quentin out of his thoughts. He looks up, up, up to hazel eyes. Quentin isn’t good with faces, but he thinks he’d remember this one if they’d met before. 

It’s not often he meets a man he’s attracted to. He doesn’t like labels. His sexuality is one of the very few things in his life he’s never been anxious or overly concerned with. It never really mattered to him and he’s made an effort to avoid any kind of self-reflection on the topic to keep it that way. 

(It had always frustrated Alice, who drew comfort from having a category for everything in her life. A means of imposing order on chaos. She never liked that the most she could get out of him on this topic was _I like guys sometimes, I guess?_ )

He’s tall —that’s the first thing Quentin gets stuck on. As much as he prefers shorter women, something about a guy being taller than him has always been a _thing_ — tall and broad with dark hair, attractive but almost unconventionally so. Like his features probably shouldn’t all work together, but they do. 

“I think everyone’s lonely with this many people around.” he doesn’t mean it to be deep or pretentious, it’s just something he thinks about a lot at these things.

The man smiles and Quentin hopes he’s, like, _charmed_ by the remark and not just laughing at him, “Spoken like a true creative. What brings you to this lovely soiree if you find them so lonely?”

And that’s when he more or less decides, not to _lie_ , but to _omit_ details. Avoid the specifics of his work and just hope for a normal conversation, “Professional obligation. And you?”

“Likewise, though I will say I didn’t think I could be so _bored_ anywhere with an open bar.” he sips his drink, as though on cue.

“I’m Eliot, by the way,” he reaches out a hand. Quentin shakes it, trying not to overtly shiver at the touch of their skin. His hands are softer than they look, but strong, his grip firm but not intimidating. 

_On a break_ , he reminds himself, and feels guilty anyway.

“Q,” it’s Julia, who is suddenly beside him with alcohol, saving him from revealing his identity.

“My friends call me Q,” he tells Eliot, somewhat unnecessarily now, “Jules, this is Eliot, Eliot this is my best friend, Julia.”

He tries very hard not to put too much emphasis on ‘best friend’ because he has _some_ pride left.

* * *

Thirty minutes later Quentin finds himself pressed up against the inside of an elevator, trying to remember what floor his room is on with Eliot’s mouth against his throat and hand down his pants.

He remembers, eventually, and when they get inside he manages to blindly hook the _Do Not Disturb_ sign onto the door while Eliot licks into his mouth and undoes the buttons on their shirts. 

It’s going to take ages to get each other naked, Quentin realizes. He’s reminded how much he _hates_ formalwear. As good as Eliot looks in that suit, all he wants to do right now is _touch_. He lets Eliot work the last of the buttons open between them; Quentin’s hands are already skipping ahead, pushing up beneath his undershirt, desperate for skin. 

He’s all but pushed away as soon as the fucking buttons are dealt with, Eliot just barely not tearing the layers from his upper body. 

Absently, he feels around the wall for the light switch, wants to see the other man as he unwraps him in turn.

And _fuck_ Eliot’s pupils are wide, hair a fucking mess from Quentin’s hands. 

Quentin can’t get the shirts off him fast enough, hands shaking with how much he _wants_. As soon as the last layer is pulled over his head, Quentin pulls him back in to get at his mouth, hands feeling up and down his torso before he registers his belt coming undone and remembers, right, they still have to get out of their pants.

They pull apart to kick off shoes, probably too rough for the delicate leather, but neither of them seems to care and Eliot’s hands are back on his belt, his fly.

Quentin steps out of his pants, and at least dress pants are easier to push down than jeans. He shucks his own underwear too while he’s at it, thankful he isn’t wearing anything embarrassing, and runs his hands over Eliot’s waistband. 

He’s more than a little turned on at being completely exposed while Eliot’s belt isn’t even undone, but the desire to see him naked wins out fast. 

He cups between Eliot’s legs with one hand and- _oh_ . His eyes flick up to meet Eliot, who’s smirking like he knows exactly what Quentin just realized. He squeezes Eliot’s dick just enough to make him shudder before retreating to work open his pants, pushing them down as quickly as he can, just to _see_.

Fuck. Eliot is hard, the bulge of his cock obscene beneath the fabric of briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, his head just poking out of the waistband.

Eliot is _hung_ , even moreso than Q’s little over-the-pants preview had let on, long and girthy and Quentin is a little overwhelmed.

He’s on his knees before he consciously makes the decision to be, mouthing at Eliot through the thin barrier, the hotel carpet rough against his knees. He feels a hand tangle in his hair and whines a little, appreciative. He pulls Eliot’s underwear down to his ankles, watching him step out and kick them and his pants away before he lets himself _look_.

It’s, frankly, the most beautiful cock he’s ever seen.

So he does the first thing he can think to do and wraps a hand around him. He can’t help but _stare_ at the way it disappears into his fist for a bit before taking the tip into his mouth and _god_ it’s been too long since he sucked a dick. 

He works his tongue over the fat head, getting the shaft as wet as he can and working his way down, reveling in the little noises of encouragement Eliot makes, the flex of his hand in Quentin’s hair, guiding his pace as he sucks Eliot greedily. 

He lets himself get lost in it for long enough that his jaw starts to ache. Keeps sucking until he _has_ to ease back —slurping obscenely at the head, running his tongue over the slit— and let his hand take over, sliding easily with his saliva slicking the way. 

Reluctantly he lets Eliot’s cock slip out of his mouth entirely, looking up at him earnestly, “I, uh, kind of really like your dick.”

Eliot laughs, “Yeah I fucking noticed, Q, Jesus,”

Quentin lets Eliot guide him up onto his feet, fingers still wound in his hair. Lets Eliot kiss him, deep and dirty, pushing him towards the bed. 

And then Eliot’s hands are sliding up the insides of his thighs and Eliot’s mouth is working, hot and wet, down from his jaw to his groin, sucking a mark against Quentin’s hip.

Finally, he lets Quentin feel his mouth, slowly licking up the shaft and around the head, eyes locked to Quentin’s for as long as possible as he sinks down all the way to the base.

Quentin thinks his soul might actually separate from his body as Eliot swallows around him, bobs shallowly so that Quentin slides in and out of the back of his throat. Eliot works him like that for _ages_ , until he has to pull back, inhaling sharply through his nose. 

Two minutes in, it’s definitively the best head of Quentin’s life.

But it’s not how he wants the night to end, so a few minutes later, when he’s starting to get close, he pulls Eliot back, “Two questions,” he pants, still overwhelmed, “first, do you wanna fuck me, and second, do you happen to have a condom?”

Quentin has lube in his suitcase because book tours are _long_ , but he hadn’t exactly been planning to bang anyone when he drove out here this afternoon. 

Eliot’s breathing as hard as he is, “I absolutely want to fuck you, but no, I don’t.” 

Which is how they end up calling the front desk for prophylactics. 

He’s very glad Eliot takes the lead on that one because Quentin has enough memories of embarrassing sexual experiences without adding phone calls into the mix. To serve his part, he fetches the lube, dropping it on the bed before sprawling back languidly and listening to Eliot talk.

Eliot kindly thanks the desk clerk (with a lot more poise than Quentin could have managed with an erection) and hangs up, “She said it’ll be about half an hour, so we have some time to kill,” he crawls back over to where Quentin is stretched out and straddles his hips, “have you ever had a prostate massage?”

And then he’s spread out on hotel sheets with Eliot’s fingers inside him just deep enough to curl against his prostate. He’d forgotten how good this could be. It’s been so long since he had anything inside of him, longer still since there’d been another person putting it there.

It feels like it’s been forever since he fucked anyone other than Alice, honestly. He thinks he should feel guilty, or maybe sad. They’ve barely been broken up —on a break, whatever— for three days and he’s getting fingered by a stranger in a hotel room. 

He doesn’t though. Feel guilty. He feels _wanted_. Desired.

He feels is Eliot’s mouth, hot on his shaking inner thigh. Eliot’s fingers, massaging a merciless rhythm against his prostate. His whole body feels like a live wire, shocks of pleasure radiating out from inside him. He can already feel an orgasm building, different than usual, but no less intense. Eliot’s watching him fall apart, murmuring things into his skin like, _“So fucking beautiful, Q, wanna see you come for me,”_ so low Quentin almost can’t make out the words.

When he comes, it’s so intense he actually can’t believe it’s a dry orgasm, doesn’t understand how he can come like that and still be hard. It echoes through every inch of his body, stripping him of any shame at the moan he lets out. He shakes so hard that he’s surprised Eliot manages to keep both fingers inside him through the whole thing.

He’s expecting Eliot to pull back, —someone will definitely be here with the condoms soon— but his fingers don’t budge as he shifts up to kneel, “You up for another one? I’m kind of interested to see how many you can handle.”

Quentin’s pretty sure another might kill him, but he can’t help but nod. Almost immediately, Eliot presses back against that spot inside him, like he can’t wait any longer.

He’s still reeling from the first orgasm, so he’s not really surprised when the second one starts to build a lot quicker. Eliot’s free hand rubs soothingly up his hip, a calming balance to the lightning intensity of the other. It’s not enough to counter the shudders wracking Quentin’s body, but it’s nice. 

He’s just about to the edge, can feel it start to radiate warm and heavy through his body, when there’s a knock at the door. He tenses and it slips away.

“Fuck,” Eliot says, like he’d forgotten they were waiting for something. He wipes the lube from his fingers onto the sheets and makes his way to the door, grabbing a hotel robe on the way. 

Quentin sits up to watch him despite the fact that most of his body feels like jelly at the moment. Eliot tips whatever poor soul got stuck on condom delivery for the night and turns back, slipping out of the robe —confident and unashamed in his nudity and Jesus how did Quentin manage to end up in bed with him?— before making his way back towards Quentin, “Where were we?”

Quentin hums, “You were about to make me come again and then I was thinking I’d ask you really nicely to fuck me?”

Quentin surprises himself with how easy and confident he sounds. How natural it feels to ask for what he wants right now. He’s not sure if it’s that Eliot is a stranger, that there’s no friendship or relationship hinging on tonight going well, no pressure the same way he’s used to. Maybe it’s just some combination of pliant relaxation that comes post-orgasm and the fact that his dick is still hard enough to give him an edge of shamelessness.

Whatever it is, Quentin likes the person he is tonight. 

“Ah, of course,” his voice is somehow teasing and predatory all at once as he pushes Quentin back down against the sheets.

Eliot doesn’t just make him come once more time, though. He makes Quentin come dry again and again and again, taking a break every so often to sink his fingers deeper inside, stretching him open. Letting Quentin just barely recover and then going back to those maddening _come hither_ strokes to his prostate until he can’t tell the peak of one orgasm apart from another. 

He had no idea his body could even _do this_. It’s transcendent. He doesn’t know how long it goes on for or how many times he comes, just that he’s a fucking mess by the time Eliot finally decides to fuck him. 

Quentin thinks maybe he’s been asking, _begging_ for it, for a while, but he couldn’t tell you a thing about what’s been coming out of his mouth other than a constant stream of _something_. He’s so hard now it hurts, his cock’s been twitching and leaking over his stomach for so long there’s fluid smeared everywhere.

He’s still shaking, Eliot’s fingers still working him open like he isn’t already boneless and pliant and more than ready. Every time he feels knuckles brush against his prostate, Quentin chokes out a sob. 

“You still want me to fuck you?” Quentin’s confused for a minute because _what kind of question is that?_ But he can recognize, objectively, how far he’s let this man push him, how completely wrecked and sensitive he is right now. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone else in his place might need the out that Eliot’s offering him.

_Yes, I want it, I can handle it_ he tries to say, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be fully attached to his brain at the moment. He swallows, breathing deep and shaky, trying to get his shit together enough to express the enthusiastic consent he’s feeling with _real words_. 

He gets there eventually, with Eliot’s eyes boring into him, “Not to be dramatic, but I think I might die if you don’t.”

Eliot laughs but it sounds desperate, he leans up the bed to press their mouths together, open and messy, like he wants it too much to manage any finesse. Quentin brings a shaky hand to the back of his head to pull them closer. The movement shifts Eliot’s fingers inside of him and Quentin gasps into the kiss with a shudder. 

When he opens his eyes, Eliot looks about two seconds away from imploding. His free hand cups Quentin’s jaw almost sternly, but his words are soft, “Can you come like this one more time for me first, Q?’

He whines, a little overwhelmed by the suggestion and by the stark intimacy of his nickname on Eliot’s lips right now. He’s honestly not sure if he can come again like this, but he wants to try, wants to be good, “Yeah, please, El,”

He feels the fingers slide almost out of him, barely two knuckles deep, and he braces himself. Eliot rests their foreheads together and then presses into his prostate.

He sobs out a desperate noise, the stimulation sending shocks through his body. He can feel the muscles of his pelvic floor start to spasm. It’s going to be fast, he realizes, like coming so many times this way has his body primed for it. His hands grapple desperately for any skin within reach, hands shaking against Eliot’s ribs. Their mouths are so close and he wants to pull the other man down to kiss him, but his body is weak, limbs uncooperative. So he focuses on the way their breathing mingles, tries to keep his eyes open to watch Eliot watching him. 

Every touch to his prostate is so much, so good. He’s completely overwhelmed, his whole body warm and singing as his orgasm builds, spreading out from his center and radiating through his whole body. 

“That’s it, baby, just one more, come on,” it crashes around him, otherworldly, roaring through his body like a wildfire. 

The endorphin rush of pleasing Eliot hits him with it, like a chaser. He doesn’t think either of them consciously decided for this to become a power play. Quentin doesn’t do a lot of casual sex to begin with, and he knows better than to trust a complete stranger to take care of him like this —it’s like flying without a net, asking to fall far and fast straight onto concrete— but he’s unusually comfortable submitting to Eliot.

He’s still shaking as Eliot slips his fingers out, reaches for a condom. Quentin manages to wrap a trembling hand around the man’s cock, floored again by the size of him. Eager for the stretch.

“Still good?” Eliot sounds, well, not as broken as Quentin feels, but pretty heady for someone whose only stimulation in the last hour was fingering someone. 

Quentin jerks him, more steadily than he’d have thought possible, the job eased along by Eliot’s precum. He’s definitively past the point where words are going to be a thing, hopes Eliot can trust him enough to accept his shaky nod and the hum of agreement he does manage.

Eliot scans his face for a minute, searching for any kind of doubt and sits up. 

He opens the condom.

Quentin hums again in approval, spreads his legs wider. Normally when he bottoms, he likes to be fucked on his hands and knees, likes the depth and the angle and the easy way he can jerk himself off. At the moment, though, he’s pretty sure he couldn’t manage to flip himself over, let alone actually hold his body up, and he’s going to come like a freight train either way.

So he just watches Eliot spread more lube over the condom, watches him press himself eagerly against Quentin. Revels in the stretch as Eliot fills him up. He’s thankful for the edge of discomfort. It’s like a palate cleanser for his oversensitive nerves, a different kind of stimulation.

Once he’s buried to the hilt, Eliot looks like it’s taking every ounce of his control to stay still, let Quentin adjust.

The temptation to tease him is too much to resist. Quentin shifts, almost squirming, like he’s trying to get used to the feeling, like he’s not already waiting for Eliot to just full on plow him. He flexes as much as he can, stretched to the brim around the girth inside him, can’t help but let out a small noise at the sensation. Keeps making those tiny little movements and watching Eliot’s resolve crack.

He sees the moment it clicks. Smirks when Eliot braces his hips down against the mattress with one big hand and wedges his thighs further apart to remove Quentin’s leverage. He quirks an eyebrow, a challenge, when Eliot’s free hand moves to hold his jaw. 

There’s no force behind Eliot’s hand, just the potential —a tease of the latent strength in his biceps, his palm— telling Quentin he _could_ if he wanted to. Not a threat, exactly, but an assertion. A reminder of how easily he could overpower him, that Quentin’s at his mercy. Making him trust that he won’t hurt him. 

Eliot tilts his head so that their eyes meet, braces his free hand next to Quentin’s head on the mattress and leans in close so that their mouths are brushing as he speaks, barely more than a whisper, “You’re such a _brat_.”

And he starts to thrust, still gripping Quentin’s jaw. He runs a finger over his lips, letting Quentin suck it into his mouth while he fucks him into the mattress. 

It’s exactly as good as Quentin hoped, the cock inside him rough and unforgiving. It’s perfect after the steady worship of Eliot’s fingers, feeling the man above him take what he needs from his body, feeling used and _good_.

He’s floating a little, enjoying the ride, but he’s aware enough to tell that Eliot’s starting to get close. Absently lets his hand slide towards his own cock. 

“No.” Eliot’s hands are both occupied, holding himself up and Quentin down respectively, but the word might as well have slapped his wrist. He groans around Eliot’s finger in his mouth, sucking gently, equal parts turned on and frustrated at the order.

“I’ll tell you when you can come, baby, don’t worry,” the words are murmured against his ear and Quentin shudders as they wash over him. He’s overwhelmed by it all. The rough slide of Eliot’s cock stretching him open. The duality of oversensitivity and denial, its implication of control. The hand still gripping his jaw.

He lets go, lets Eliot take care of him.

He thinks he hears Eliot pant out a desperate _fuck_ , but he’s not sure. Not sure about anything when his head is so clear and everything else is so fuzzy. He should be worried about going this deep with someone who doesn’t even know his whole first name —especially without discussing _anything_ about it beforehand— but he’s too high to worry about anything right now other than how warm Eliot is above him, the vague slide of his thick cock pushing in and in and out. Even that is distant, like his body’s far away from his mind and his mind is half-gone. 

Everything is hazy and vague and he lets himself just float in it.

He slips back into awareness when Eliot’s hand leaves his face, wraps itself around Quentin’s hand, pushing it towards his cock. Permission. He starts to stroke himself and it’s good, sharper than the build of his orgasms earlier and more localized.

Eliot’s hand comes back to cup his jaw again, turning Quentin’s head to look at him, thumb stroking over his bottom lip, “You back, baby?”

Eliot’s voice is soft and breathy, with an edge of desperation. Quentin gets the impression that he was trying to talk to him before, trying to bring him out slow.

“Yeah, m’here,” he’s still fuzzy around the edges, but he’s aware.

“Want you to come with me,” Eliot says, and Quentin nods. He can do that, can give Eliot whatever he wants. He jerks himself harder, trying to time it with Eliot’s thrusts. Lets himself feel the slick fullness, arching up into it. 

He wraps his legs up around Eliot’s waist, shifting his hips so that he’s brushing, just-barely, against Quentin’s overworked prostate. It’s enough to have him trembling, balls tight, teetering just on the edge, waiting for Eliot.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Eliot groans against the skin of his neck, kissing open mouthed and fucks deepdeepdeep, shuddering hard as his orgasm hits.

Quentin comes almost immediately, so keyed up and well fucked that he slips over the edge as soon as Eliot does, as soon as he’s allowed. He’s still a little hazy, time doesn’t completely make sense, but it feels like he comes for a long time. It keeps cresting and cresting, like the ocean battering a ship in a storm. He can feel the hot, messy ropes of it striping his stomach and chest, all the way up to his collarbones. It has to be all the buildup —the prostate stimulation, the easy way Eliot had controlled how and when and how many times— because he definitely has never come so hard in his life.

When he comes down, Eliot is still inside him, hand petting his hair, breath ragged. They stay like that for a minute, just breathing, until Eliot has to pull out. Quentin has to fight the urge to keep him there. The emptiness echoes after being full for so long.

Eliot doesn’t pull away though, not completely. It takes Quentin a minute to realize he’s staring at the mess on his torso, too distracted to even take the condom off. He looks a little mesmerized.

Quentin follows his gaze and immediately sees why, flushing. He’d kind of known he’d come a lot but _fuck._ He’s covered in it. He thinks absently it must be his body’s way of compensating for all the dry orgasms.

Eliot tentatively reaches out, runs a finger through it, swallowing heavily before pressing his palm fully into the wet skin, right above Quentin’s navel, smearing it obscenely, “Fuck, you came so much,”

He looks up at Quentin, the eye contact somehow more intimate than anything they’ve done tonight, “I guess that’s, uh, what happens when you spend an hour giving me prostate orgasms before you let me come?”

Eliot just kisses him in response, moving to the bathroom to dispose of the condom.

Quentin misses the contact immediately, his body yearning for touch. He takes a deep breath, trying to ease himself back into real life.

He’s glad Eliot got up though, when he returns from the bathroom with a warm washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other and starts cleaning Quentin up.

He hands him the cup as soon as they’re both fluid-free. Quentin isn’t really thirsty, but he finishes it anyway, knows he probably needs it, especially since he was drinking earlier.

“What do you need?” Eliot asks when he finishes the glass, “Aftercare-wise?”

Quentin tries not to be embarrassed asking for it. Tries to hold onto the lightness, the feeling of being _good._ He’s glad Eliot knows enough to ask him, Quentin’s a lot better at giving aftercare than receiving it. 

“Just. Contact? I guess? Like skin contact-” he very carefully avoids the word _cuddling_ , “and reassurance?” 

Eliot nods, “What about food? Do you have something to snack on?”

“I think there are some snickers in the minibar?” he sits up while Eliot grabs him a candy bar. Lets himself lean into the contact when Eliot comes back and sits behind him up against the headboard, pulling Quentin against his chest. 

Eliot pull the blankets around them. He relaxes into the feel of hands rubbing soothingly over his chest and shoulders while he eats.

It should be weird, cuddled naked in a stranger’s lap eating candy and letting the susurrus of whispered praise — _so good for me, so beautiful, Q, you did so well_ — and soft kisses against his hair soothe him. But he knows how important it is, stranger or no stranger, and clearly so does Eliot, so he lets himself have it.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s alone. 


	3. Trade Baby Blues for Wide Eyed Browns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to talk about it?” he finally looks Quentin in the eye. He looks… stressed more than anything. Guarded.
> 
> “Not even a little. But I think it’s going to be really awkward until we do and I’m awkward enough in interviews as it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to reassert the warnings in the tags here.
> 
> Title from [ G.I.N.A.S.F.S ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73G7kxHhFeI) by Fall Out Boy

Quentin paces.

Awkward situations are something he has a lot of experience with. He’s half convinced he should be immune to them just from sheer exposure at this point in his life.

He is, unfortunately, very much not immune and he’s fairly sure that this day in particular will feature heavily in his brain’s _Highlight Reel of Cringy Experiences_ as he tries to fall asleep every night from now until death. 

Every moment after he opens the door makes him desperately wish he could melt into the walls of his foyer rather than stand and silently feel the room fill with tension as thick and noxious as a gas leak.

He knows that Eliot knows who he is. The way he’d said his name. _Quentin_ , not Q. 

Penny had sent him the shooting schedule yesterday, but he’d been too busy getting stuck on _I fucked a guy from FuzzBeat_ to really absorb any of the details. Apparently they weren’t even talking to him today. At least not on camera. 

Small mercies.

Quentin suspects the other three know something is up based on the way the camera guy —Josh?— had glanced back and forth between him and Eliot during their stilted introduction. _And_ during the even more stilted three sentences of schedule explanation afterwards. _And_ when Quentin had all but tripped his way into the house.

Eliot had made his retreat into the house at the first opportunity with only the vaguest of directions from Quentin; not _unprofessionally_ soon, but definitely more quickly than the schedule called for. 

Once the initial instant rush of relief from _not-having-to-deal-with-it_ has settled in Quentin’s core, something else starts to pick at him. Because _of course_ he can’t get a god damn moment of peace. 

It keeps rolling around his head. The idea that _Eliot_ is wandering around his house, all but uninvited, permeating a space Quentin had never intended to share with him. 

A space Quentin had explicitly planned to share with someone who _wasn't_ him.

But, well, planned is the operative word there.

The house, despite whatever _plans_ he’d had when he signed the paperwork, is thoroughly _his and only his_ at this point. It probably helps that Alice had never really _lived_ there so much as _stayed_ there, but very little of it had felt like hers to begin with. 

Except —with Eliot wandering through it— it does now. 

It makes Quentin’s stomach twist, to think of him walking through hallways she’d walked first, unaware of his role in her absence.

His presence here is incongruous. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, but ramped up to eleven. 

More like seeing your priest at a strip club. 

Eliot in his house is imposing and illicit. 

He’d fallen in love with this place almost immediately, the hodge podge of old and new making the home feel eclectic and warm. The promise of a future. The implicit potential of too many bedrooms and a good school district.

The previous owners had spent years renovating it from studs to shingles. He knows the place has to have been a money pit, he’d seen the before photos. 

It never made sense to him why anyone would spend so much time and love and energy making something beautiful only to pick up and leave when it was done. 

He thinks —and he’s thought about this too much, the writer part of his brain picking at the threads he knows too well— maybe it was a double edged sword for them. Maybe by fixing all the broken pieces they changed it too much, lost the charm of what brought them to it in the first place. 

Like the ship of Theseus, an allegory from his short stint in philosophy that stuck with him. _How many pieces of something can you replace before it becomes something else?_

It took Quentin a long time to realize that fixing things doesn’t make them the same as they were, just makes them less broken.

Even if you replace the broken parts of something with carbon copies —identical down to the placement of atoms and molecules— you’ve fundamentally changed it.

Let alone if you tear out the drywall and sand down the hardwood.

Josh comes up to him about an hour into their day, “We’re about halfway done with the exterior shots of the house. Can we get you in the office just to set up how we’ll be shooting the rest of the week?”

Quentin rapidly shifts away from pensive thoughts, the gnawing awkwardness in his gut dropping out the bottom, chased by a prickle of dread, “Why are you filming the _outside_ of my house?”

Whether his timing was just that good or he’d been hovering in the hallway, Eliot had to have been listening because he enters the room before Josh can explain, “Is that a problem?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Quentin is trying to be a consummate professional. He really doesn’t mean for it to be snarky, but in his defense, it’s a stupid question.

Eliot is equally patronizing in his response, “Your address won’t be in any of the shots, we know what we’re doing.” 

The thing is, Quentin’s work might be somewhat famous, but Quentin wouldn’t consider _himself_ famous. The nature of being a successful author is an odd middle ground of popularity where people on the street will know his name, know his work in a vague pop-culture kind of way, but most people — outside the circle of more invested fans and critics— don’t really recognize _him_. 

_Most_ _people_ is not no one though. That circle can get rather more intense than he’s comfortable with.

Quentin takes a few steps towards him, still not quite in his personal space, but nevertheless it easily halves the distance between them.

“My house isn’t some generic suburban copy, _Eliot_ ,” his tone implies that Eliot’s name could be easily substituted for _dumbass_ in this context, “It’s kind of recognizable. Even without the address.”

Poor Josh looks like he’s stuck between his parents fighting.

“If you had _read_ the production outline, _Quentin_ , you would know that it’s not shots of the full exterior-”

Josh cuts Eliot off, probably saving everyone in the room their last shreds of professionalism, “I think we’re all a little bit hangry here.” he steps back between them, as though there’s a risk of actual physical violence breaking out. 

“How about I go with Gemma and Maggie to pick up some food and the two of you either go to your separate corners and avoid each other, or sort out whatever _this_ is-” he gestures between the two of them vaguely, “-that you’re actually arguing about here? Okay?”

Quentin nods, pointedly _not_ looking at Eliot.

* * *

Eliot feels like an asshole. Is _being_ an asshole. 

Shots change on the day-of all the time. Omitting the exterior of the house really isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things.

It’s his first project back, though, even if he didn’t want it, and he’s put a lot of work into figuring out the composition of the shots he wants. And Quentin’s house is objectively gorgeous. The eclectic blend of the Victorian features with modern decor is going to be a fantastic backdrop for the video. But it doesn’t work the same way without the _Victorian features_.

Were he asked, he would absolutely point out that Quentin is being an asshole too. It’s unprofessional of him to _not even read the shot list_ and then throw a fit about something after they’d already spent time getting the footage.

Eliot plans to say all of that when Josh leaves, but in the few minutes it takes to round up Maggie and Gemma, most of Eliot’s annoyance peters off.

“I’m sorry,” he really only means to apologize for being a dick _today_ , but it’s a loaded statement.

“Me too,” Quentin says, and sighs, “can we just. Not have my house in the video though? There’re a lot of people on the internet who hate me. And a lot of people who like me too much and I really don’t want to give any of them the resources to show up at my doorstep.”

“Yeah, “ he says, because unfortunately Quentin’s reasoning is _sound._ There goes the video’s aesthetic.

They stand there, not talking, not looking at each other. 

The silence is oppressive. _The elephant in the room_. A huge third party in the conversation, carrying seven tons of weight behind it. The longer it goes on the harder it feels to break it. 

“Should we, like, talk about it?” Quentin finally says, still looking at his shoes.

“Is there something to talk about?” he doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, like he’s ashamed, “Sorry, fuck, not like that. Do you _want_ to talk about it?” he finally looks Quentin in the eye. He looks… stressed more than anything. Guarded.

“Not even a little. But I think it’s going to be really awkward until we do and I’m awkward enough in interviews as it is.” he uncrosses his arms in a way that looks forced to Eliot, his hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

Eliot laughs despite himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose where he can feel a tension headache starting to form, “I guess I should apologize.”

Quentin looks confused, “For sleeping with me? For...” he trails off, “the rest of it?” he clears his throat, cheeks a little flushed. 

He remembers Quentin underneath him suddenly. Vividly. Eyes glassy, talking nonstop, not even aware he was doing it. And he’d slipped under _so_ easily. All things considered, everything they’d done that night was barely scratching the surface of kink, it made Eliot wonder what he’d be like in a more intense scene.

And _that_ made Eliot feel guilty. He didn’t have a right to look at Quentin and _want_ when he hadn’t even done the simple shit right.

“For leaving in the middle of the night when I wasn’t sure you’d be okay in the morning. For pushing when I didn’t know your limits and not stopping when I should have.”

He hopes it doesn’t sound rehearsed. It is, in a way. In that he’s spent more time than he’s comfortable with reflecting on it and all the other shitty things he’d done and pushed to the back of his mind before he was sober.

Quentin looks more confused, stepping towards him, “Eliot,” his voice is soft, “I don’t know what you think was happening that night, but you didn’t do anything I didn’t consent to. Anything I didn’t really fucking _want_ you to do. Yeah we should have like… negotiated some things beforehand for sure and it wasn’t… _good practice_ or whatever, but don’t apologize for it.”

Eliot swallows thickly, some of the tension between them eases with his conscience. He pulls him in for a hug before he can even question if it’s okay to do so, “Thanks, Q.”

“You’re still a dick for leaving overnight though,” but he hugs Eliot back anyway.

Eliot laughs, “I’m sorry. I wish I could say that was out of character for me at the time. Were you okay in the morning?”

Quentin nods, “Yeah, it was fine, I was fine. You took care of me.”

He lets go of Quentin eventually. Eliot’s made a lot of amends since he last saw Quentin, but he never really gets used to the discomfort of forgiveness.

The silence returns. He’s expecting Quentin to say something. Get whatever he needs to say out, it’s not like their interactions had only been awkward for _Eliot_ after all.

Quentin doesn’t say anything.

They may not be hugging any more, but they haven’t moved apart and Eliot suddenly realizes just how close they are. He meets Quentin’s eyes, still waiting for him. They’ve been standing here for too long, the silence stretching, but the weight of it is different this time.

“We should probably talk about the video now,” he steps back.

Quentin clears his throat, “Yeah, I, uh, didn’t exactly absorb a lot of the schedule. To be honest, I spent most of the weekend kind of trying to figure out how to navigate _you_ ,” he looks sheepish at the admission.

“That’s okay. We can go over it now and you can let me know if you have a problem with anything else. Luckily this is a pretty free-form project, so while we’re on a timeline, there’s a lot of flexibility with the content…”

* * *

Quentin had been wrapped up in hating the idea of this video, and then in the panic of seeing Eliot again, but he never actually stopped to think about what it would be like to work with Eliot on the video.

For Quentin it’s just a dumb interview. An invasion of his home and privacy and an annoying PR bid that doubles as a way for his publisher to breathe down his neck about the deadlines he’s missing. But it’s Eliot’s _job_. 

And he’s _good_ at it. Which, honestly, he hadn’t really expected from the guy behind videos like _Drinking Around the World_. 

Quentin doesn’t know the first thing about lighting or angles or _composition_ . He’s not even 100% sure he’s thinking of the right thing when Eliot says _composition_. But he’s starting to trust Eliot not to make him look like an idiot in this thing.

“Where did you learn all this?” he asks.

And immediately realizes he’s just cut Eliot off in the middle of a sentence about camera angles because he’d completely zoned out. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

“Film school?” Eliot says, like it’s obvious, “I know I don’t come off as the academic type, but I did do my masters at NYU.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. Which honestly, makes him feel like a dick, because he’d kind of assumed making FuzzBeat videos was something really anyone could do with a decent camera and a corporate budget. In retrospect, _of course_ a multimillion dollar news media conglomerate would hire producers who, like, actually know what they’re doing.

“I never finished grad school,” he hopes Eliot accepts it for the apology it is.

“You dropped out of Yale when your first novel was published, right?” Eliot must have done some reading up on him, because that’s what he generally says in the interviews he actually agrees to. 

Some investigation is pretty reasonable considering he’s literally being paid to sit here and ask Quentin about his writing, but it still makes him feel exposed to know he’s been researched. And it’s not quite accurate.

“I dropped out after I tried to kill myself, actually.” he doesn’t pause for a response. It’s better, in his experience, to get out the story before anyone can interject with shock and pity, “Getting published was more the reason I didn’t go back. That and the fact that writing tens of pages on nihilism isn’t super healthy when you’re chemically predisposed to thinking life is pointless and not worth living.” 

Philosophy had really been an exceedingly terrible choice for him, in retrospect.

Eliot looks shocked, which is probably fair because that’s not really a bomb you expect to be dropped in the _oh where did you go to college_ conversation, “Q, I-”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not like _okay_ okay. It’s fucked up and my brain is still kind of broken. Will always be kind of broken. But I’m glad I failed and I’m in a better place now. Just. Not everything you’ve read about me is the whole truth, okay?” 

He doesn’t know why it’s important to him that Eliot knows that.

Eliot cups his jaw and it’s-

Confusing.

It reminds Quentin viscerally of _that_ night. But it’s not nearly the same touch. Eliot’s fingers are tender on his face, just grazing his skin, not directing or dominating. Quentin’s in control of this, can lean in or pull away if he wants to. He meets Eliot’s gaze. There’s warmth there, and maybe too much understanding.

“I’m glad you failed too,” and he hugs Quentin.

“Good to see you guys didn’t go with the separate corners.” Quentin is surprised he didn’t hear Josh come in the front door.

Eliot releases the hug and Quentin misses the contact for a moment.

“What’s for lunch, Hoberman?”

* * *

He calls Julia just like he promised. Just after 6 when he knows she’ll be home. 

“How did it go?” she says in lieu of a hello.

“At first? Bad. Awkward. We started fighting in the middle of the living room over like _nothing_. The camera guy had to basically put us in time out, it was embarrassing.” he feels like an idiot just thinking about how he’d overreacted, fork twirling absently in his overcooked spaghetti.

She hums, “And then?”

“Better? Confusing. I don’t know? He apologized,” he puts her on speakerphone and starts boiling water for tea, just for something to do with his hands that doesn’t require forcing down any more of his own subpar cooking.

“For starting a fight in your living room? Good.”

“No, for… back then. Leaving in the middle of the night. And for- I guess he thought he’d been a little too intense? _I’m_ the asshole who started a fight.”

“Was he? Too intense?” she sounds worried.

Quentin almost laughs, “God no. The only thing I regret about that night is Alice.”

The kettle boils, “Have you told her? That it’s him doing the project.”

“Did I tell her I’m spending a week with the guy I accidentally cheated on her with? No. It took us so long just to get back on speaking terms. Do you really think I should?” he stares into his tea cabinet, grabs something at random.

“If it was in print or something I’d say no, but it’s a FuzzBeat video. It’s pretty likely she’ll see it. Or hear about it. Besides, it’s a professional thing. If anything she’ll appreciate how awkward it is for you. Like karma,” he hadn’t even considered that Alice might watch it. He doesn’t know how much she keeps up with his professional career these days.

“I should tell her. At least so she can avoid it.” but his brain overspins that, he knows her too well. 

“But like... She doesn’t know anything about him other than his first name. And if I tell her it’s him, she’ll know who he is.” 

_If I tell her it’s him, she’ll know who he is_ , Jesus, no wonder he has writer’s block.

“She’ll Google him, a hundred percent. I definitely did. But that’s her choice at that point. And if you don’t tell her and she finds out later it’ll be worse,” he wishes his tea was cool enough to drink. 

He starts pacing the small, narrow strip of his kitchen. It’s galley-style with barely any counter space and the fridge is basically right next to the stove. Even the sleek, subway tile backsplash and ceiling high, glass-doored white cabinets can’t remedy the awkward setup. It’s pretty shit for cooking, but the length of it is good for pacing at least. 

“I’ve just hurt her so much already, Jules.”

She sighs, “I know, Q. But she’s an adult. And not your partner anymore. If you want to be her friend you have to stop tiptoeing around everything with her. She’s better than you think.” 

He knows she’s right because she’s always right about these things. 

Eventually he decides to redirect the conversation away from Alice territory, “We start the actual interviewing part tomorrow,”

“You looking forward sharing all your traumas with him?” 

He doesn’t tell her that he’d gotten a head start on that already today. 

“Sharing my traumas, hiding my writer’s block, trying not to overthink my words because I know teenagers in the comments are going to eviscerate me regardless…”

“It’ll be fine, Q. Just... stare deeply into his eyes and bare your soul to him. What could go wrong?”


	4. Can't Commit to a Thing (Be It Heart or Hospital)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is (again) from Fall Out Boy, _Bang the Doldrums_

Performance anxiety is something Quentin has experience coping with. He’s fumbled his way through enough convention panels and talk show interviews to have his sea legs about him when it comes to the publicity aspect of his job. He even got good at it somewhere around the second book tour. There was something comforting about doing an interview knowing all the questions are just going to be repeats and remixes of ones he answered last week or last month. 

Interviews are just tests and Quentin has always known how to study. Except most tests didn’t come with an audience of millions; a mob free to play back any flub of words or verbal misstep. 

Everything was fine when he was essentially screaming into the void, only to be heard and understood by a stranger flipping channels or a few devoted fans on a 3am YouTube spiral. The challenge came when his third book was, to his complete and utter misfortune, wildly popular. 

Suddenly, his words weren’t just falling into the void anymore. He wasn’t lost in the depths of the internet buried beneath a mountain of culture and content more relevant than him. Overnight there was a mass of people giffing and painting and quoting every scrap of analysis or opinion that might slip into a response. Everything he said and wrote had too much weight or too little meaning or not enough context. Comment boxes that had once been filled with tens of messages of enjoyment or support were full of thousands of jokes and arguments over quotes he only half remembered writing.

He stopped doing interviews. 

Until he finds himself with Eliot, sitting on the not-quite-lavender couch in the office, and despite all his experience Quentin can’t remember if he’s supposed to be looking at the camera or not. He realizes he’s slouching, suddenly. Wonders if his hair looks okay or if there’s going to be a section, like, sticking up, memorialized forever on the internet with some asshat writing a condescending essay about how he probably spent twenty minutes mussing his hair to look _artistic_ and-

“Breathe, Quentin.” Eliot probably didn’t mean to use _that_ voice, but it works, snapping his attention away from worst-cases.

“It’s not an interrogation. And I’ll be doing the bulk of the editing. If there’s something you don’t want included we can cut it, or if there’s something off in a shot we can just overlay the audio with other footage. Just talk and let us worry about the rest.”

Eliot’s competence is almost enough to soothe Quentin’s insecurity. He nods.

“So, do you want to start by telling us about your new book?” It’s an innocuous enough question, but he immediately tenses all over again.

“Um, can we start with something else actually?”

Eliot seems to understand he’s hit a sore spot and backtracks, “What about starting at the beginning? Your first book?”

Quentin nods. That’s safe enough. Familiar territory. A repeat, a remix. 

He makes himself breathe. Like Eliot said. Relax.

“So, Quentin,” Eliot’s voice is different in front of the camera like this, less dry wit and more warmth. There’s an easy, bubbly quality to it. As if he’d practiced the exact pitch and cadence to capture attention, with only the slightest edge of smooth professionalism betraying his effort. It doesn’t make his sudden focus on Quentin, the weight of his undivided attention, any easier to bear, “What made you decide to be an author?”

Quentin laughs dryly, “ _Decide_ is maybe too strong a word there. Books were always an escape for me, but I only started writing when I was institutionalized at sixteen- “ 

He wonders if it’s something Eliot knew already; his face doesn’t give anything away. This isn’t the first time he’s talked about this in interviews. He’s always made a point to be open about at least the broad strokes of his mental health, but he’s keenly aware that this isn’t just going to his fanbase. As chaotic and mercurial as they can be, they’re still _his_ audience and he trusts them to this extent. 

But Penny had warned him that FuzzBeat is another animal entirely. With every word he’s conscious of the fact that this won’t just be for his audience, but _theirs_ —the most public platform he’s shared this on so directly. 

“-and I told one of the doctors that I felt- I think I said something like ‘trapped in my brain.’ I didn’t really like the person I was and journaling through my thoughts made it worse. So she suggested I write. Get in someone else’s head whenever mine was bad. And it helped. But it was always for _me_ , I never really thought about publishing anything. My best friend is the only one I even let read anything. She took a gap year before business school working as a copy editor at a publishing house and she kind of… convinced her boss to read the first draft of my book without telling me.”

Eliot laughs, the sound easy and softer than his real life laugh, but no less genuine. It draws a smile from Quentin, “I hope you thanked her.”

“As soon as I was done being mad at her. I actually wasn’t even going to take the book deal at first, it felt like an invasion, you know?” Quentin has always felt like interviews are more like very public therapy than conversations —and his tendency to overspeak and overshare got him into all the more trouble for it— but he almost forgets about the camera now.

“What made you change your mind?” Eliot asks, a curl falling onto his forehead, looking for all the world like it’s absolutely supposed to be there.

“My dad.” It’s been a long time since the wound was fresh enough to really hurt, but there’s always a little bite to talking about him. 

“He said that the books I read probably —definitely— saved my life. And that I had the chance to do that for someone too. If I was brave enough,” _that’s_ something he’s never said publicly before. It always felt too self-aggrandizing. 

It feels egotistical to admit he only has a career because he wanted someone to see him the way he’d seen Tolkien and Plover: some kind of literary savior opening the door so a nerdy, depressed kid can escape. He’s not sure if he’ll let Eliot keep it in the video, but it feels good to say.

“Your dad sounds like a smart guy.” as Eliot says it, Quentin realizes they’re staring. He’s not sure if they’re supposed to be, honestly. If that’s just how YouTube interviews are or if it’s too intimate.

Either way, he breaks the eye contact to say what he says next, “He was. He died not too long after it was published. Brain cancer.”

That had somehow been the best and worst year of Quentin’s life. 

Getting into Yale, going even when Julia and James decided to take a gap year. Drowning in his classes and feeling desperately alone, regretting more than anything selling his _Fillory and Further_ first editions. 

He was already hollow and burnt out by Thanksgiving when his dad told him about the cancer. About not pursuing treatment. 

The betrayal of that, like he was abandoning Quentin too. 

The betrayal of Julia sharing his writing, knowing what it meant to him. He almost never forgave her for it, even after he signed the paperwork. Even after months of editing when he was on the _New York Times Bestseller_ list with ‘ _For Jules and Dad. Thanks for making me brave.’_ right above a passage from _The World in the Walls_ on the first page. 

He didn’t talk to her until she came to see him in the hospital.

From the look on Eliot’s face, Quentin thinks he must have done the calendar math, must have guessed where his mind drifted, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” that was something a therapist had asked him to try, years ago. Accepting apologies, sympathy, with gratitude. Letting himself deserve it. Sometimes he succeeded.

“Do you want to stop for lunch? We have more than enough for now.”

A refusal is on the tip of his tongue, but he catches Eliot’s eye. The understanding there softens Quentin’s resolve. 

“Yeah,” his voice is a little rough, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

* * *

After lunch they talk more about mental health. Quentin’s experiences and the advocacy work he does in his free time. He knows most of what Quentin tells him already, from interviews, from private conversations. He’d skimmed Quentin’s biography, knew the basics of his story. Even being in the public eye himself though, he sometimes forgets that there’s a real person behind every Wikipedia page. 

But hearing him talk about it in front of a camera, having to be calm and professional made it hit differently. Like it didn’t just happen to bestselling young adult author Quentin Coldwater, but also to _Q_. 

When they wrap for the day, Eliot is thankful to be done for his own sake as much as Quentin’s. 

As they’re packing up what equipment they’ve decided not to leave overnight, he considers pulling Quentin aside again to talk privately. He decides against it chiefly because he’s not even sure what it is he wants to say to him. Their dirty laundry had already been brought out to air and in his experience _talking_ rarely improved any situation he hadn’t yet fucked up.

“So Day Two went far less awkwardly than Day One, huh?” Josh says before they can even buckle their seatbelts. Christ, Eliot should have known he wouldn’t just let him off the hook. 

“I know Bambi must have given you some pretty extensive babysitting instructions in her absence, Hoberman, but you’re pussywhiped enough for the both of us so please just drop it,” it comes out with far less bite than he’d been going for. He just sounds tired.

“I’m not asking for Margo, dude, I do still have some amount of free will,” he sounds hurt, but thankfully he doesn’t press the issue in front of Gemma and Maggie.

* * *

“I don’t think you understand, Eliot,” Quentin feels like a broken record, “I don’t have a ‘writing process.’ I just write,” _in theory, anyway._

“Thank you, so much, for that exclusive glimpse into the mind of a creative genius, Quentin, but footage of you typing in your office is still footage,” coming from almost anyone else, the comment would have cut deep, but Eliot’s patronizing sarcasm is softened by melodrama.

They’d been arguing in circles for almost ten minutes according to the yellow clock on the living room wall and Josh looks like he might put them in time out again.

Quentin sighs, “Can I talk to you privately?”

Eliot’s brow furrows slightly and before he can question anything, Quentin pulls him by the wrist towards the office.

“I don’t want you to film me writing.” he lets go of Eliot’s hand a moment later than he probably should, but Eliot doesn’t call him on it.

His eyes roll yet again, “I gathered as much, Q, why?”

If it were anyone other than Eliot, any other random FuzzBeat producer with a project deadline and no real guarantee of trust or discretion, Quentin might have tried harder to think of a lie, “I kind of… have writer’s block.”

Eliot just stares at him, “Okay and? It happens to everyone, just pull up a word document and pretend to type, we don’t have the rights to show the actual content anyway.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he takes a step forward before realizing they’re already standing close, “Um, let’s sit,”

The couch forces him to maintain a distance between them. Forces him not to let Eliot’s gravity pull him in.

“When I say writers block, I mean there is no fourth book.” Eliot looks shocked enough that Quentin at least feels good he’s been doing a decent job of hiding it until now.

“Nothing at all?” Eliot asks, dubious.

“I mean there’s words on paper, technically, but nothing close to a first draft.” it hurts his pride to admit it to Eliot of all people, who’s so effortlessly _good_ at his job.

“But your publisher-” 

Quentin interrupts him with a groan, grabbing one of the throw pillows and pulling it to his chest, “Is trying to use this documentary to bully me out of whatever funk I’m in.”

“And you can’t just pretend to have something you don’t because….” his eyes scan over Quentin’s face, down to where is hands fidget with the pillow seam, “Because you don’t think you’re going to write it.”

He should deny it; Penny would want him to downplay a possibly career-ending piece of news this quasi-journalist had weaseled out of him. But even Penny hadn’t yet caught on to Quentin’s sneaking suspicion that this isn’t just a rut.

Eliot stares him down for a minute, processing, “Wait here,” 

He’s off the couch and gone before Quentin can even respond.

Within ten minutes, Eliot’s looking between Quentin on the couch and the viewfinder on the camera as he sets everything up by himself, “We don’t have to use any of this footage if this whole thing implodes, but just trust me for a minute okay?” 

“So your solution to my crippling, career-ending break is to _put it in the video?_ ” he’s not sure if he’s more dumbfounded or offended.

“I think it’s good content, it’ll get views. And it’ll buy you time and probably piss off the PR guy you keep bitching about,” he turns on the filming lights and Quentin is almost blinded, “I sent the rest of the crew back to the hotel so this stays between us if I’m wrong and it’s a disaster angle. But I’m not wrong.” 

Quentin laughs, “This is a terrible plan.”

Eliot clicks his tongue, half in response and half to check the mic, “Wanna bet, Coldwater?”

“What do you wager?” Quentin completely blames the card shark in him for the confident, flirty tone that crawls out of his mouth and implies something less than professional. _Fuck_.

He backtracks, “Uh sorry, that came out wrong.”

Eliot’s lashes are long and his grin Cheshire wide, “Save that for after wrap and stay professional while the camera’s on, Q.”

_After wrap_ echoes in his head as Eliot checks the viewfinder one more time before taking his seat.

Before he can ask what it means, Eliot’s camera voice is back, “Let’s talk about your new book, Quentin.”

* * *

It’s harrowing, in a word. To bear this failure in front of Eliot and, maybe, the world.

Quentin wants to trust him with this, wants to believe that acknowledging the elephant might get it to fuck off. 

Or at least get Penny to fuck off, if anything. But still, “I don’t have the utmost faith in this, El.”

He hums in response, as though they’re talking about the weather and not the possible implosion of a career. 

Sitting on his couch as Eliot unplugs the lights and packs away the more expensive sound equipment Quentin waits for the panic, but it never comes. Instead of his brain turning this over and over, he feels almost relieved.

He thinks he should want to see the footage now, to decide whether or not this whole idea is actually as ridiculous as it sounded. He would have expected his eyes to drift towards the camera with its memory card holding the whole of his future at the moment, but they linger on Eliot instead. Watching his hands, large and delicate, wind cords foot by foot. 

_After wrap_ is the only thing bouncing around his head.

He gets up from the couch, crossing the scant few feet of space.

“Hey, I-” the rest of the sentence dies before it reaches Quentin’s tongue and _fuck_ he should be able to find the words for this at least. 

But he can’t. 

So he moves instead, telegraphing the flex of every muscle to Eliot’s waiting gaze as he leans up, just in case _after wrap_ really was just a flirty joke and he’s about to make an idiot of himself. He brings one hand to Eliot’s jaw, brushing softly against the stubble —an icebreaker, a signal of intent more than an action in and of itself.

Their mouths meet.

Quentin thinks he probably meant for the kiss to be gentle, a question rather than a demand, but they come together and a switch flips. Eliot’s hands are gripping the fabric of his shirt and Eliot’s teeth are scraping his bottom lip and Eliot’s feet are walking them towards the door and _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._

“Your bedroom?” Eliot asks with teeth against the skin of his neck when they’ve exited the office.

“Yeah,” and he pushes Eliot into the living room. suddenly very annoyed that his bedroom is on the other side of the house.

The trip gives him time to untuck Eliot’s shirts and get his hands up against skin _finally_ , but he only has a moment to enjoy it before he’s pushed against the hallway wall. He lets it overwhelm him for a moment, the feeling of someone bigger crowding him, touching him, pulling at his clothes.

By the time they get into the room, they’ve managed to thoroughly strip one another.

For all their fervor to get naked, Eliot slows once he has Quentin pressed into the mattress, “We should really talk about limits this time.”

Quentin knows he’s right, but his dick isn’t as convinced. He has to take a deep breath before he responds, “No choking, tickling, watersports, or uh anything that draws blood. Bondage and impact play are okay if you know what you’re doing, anything else is open for negotiation.” he thinks that should cover his bases pretty well.

Eliot runs a finger delicately over his nipple, “Traffic lights okay?”

Quentin nods, hoping to get on with things, but he’s met with a challenging eyebrow, “Yes. Green for keep going, yellow for slow down, red to stop.”

“Good boy,” it’s half sarcastic, but the air between them gets thicker nonetheless, “what’s your color?”

His mouth is dry, “Green.”

And with that Eliot’s kissing him again, rough and deep. Quentin can’t stop himself from running his hands up the planes of Eliot’s chest, around back across shoulder blades and down, down to pull their hips closer, touching everywhere he can reach. It feels like every piece of skin on his body has Eliot touching it somehow and it still isn’t enough.

Suddenly those hands are circling his wrists, pulling his arms up over his head. He’s no more naked than before, but he feels exposed. A tiny, primal part of his brain jumps at the loss of limbs, fearful of a larger body leaving his soft, weak points vulnerable. His cock twitches against Eliot’s at the spike of adrenaline.

“Grab the headboard,” He wraps his fingers around the wooden slats.

Eliot’s fingers run down wrists to shoulders and back again, smooth and contemplative and sending sparks up Quentin’s spine, “Color?”

“Green.”

“Don’t let go.” he says it with an almost lazy authority, as though acknowledging the order out loud is redundant. “Lube?”

Quentin has to push his brain to cooperate, “Left nightstand, top drawer.”

Eliot shifts, pressing him further into the bed as he leans toward the nightstand. Q is thankful that the length of Eliot’s arms mean he can reach the drawer without parting them. The lube lands unceremoniously beside his elbow and he hears the tearing of cardboard.

“Expecting this?” Eliot teases, tossing a condom from the freshly-opened package next to the lube.

His fingers twist on the wood, “Wishful thinking, more or less.”

Eliot’s hand finds his jaw —the act alone makes him shiver— and turns his face, forcing their gazes together, “I’m glad you wished,” They’re so close, Quentin could just tilt his head up to bring their mouths together, “no front desk to call this time.”

That sentence hits him like a gut punch. This isn’t a hotel in another city. This isn’t a man who doesn’t know his name. This is Eliot, in his home, in his bed. If he felt exposed before, he suddenly feels harshly, viscerally known.

Eliot leans back, shifting down his body and putting a modicum of distance between them, wrapping one lubed hand around Quentin to watch him fully stiffen. 

“I have to confess, Q, I’ve been thinking about this since I found out I’d be working with you.” his voice is casual, teasing.

“I wasn’t even sure you’d remember me.” Quentin confessed, voice breathier than he’d like.

Eliot tuts disapprovingly, hand slowing to a torturous pace, “You’re far too cute to forget.”

Quentin laughs, happy that he’s already flushed, “I bet you say that to all the boys you give hour long prostate massages to.”

“Is that a request, Coldwater?” Eliot’s free hand slips lazily behind his balls to press against his perineum.

“More like…” he pants into the stimulation, a distant, gentle fire fizzing beneath his skin, absently thankful he’d made the effort to shower this morning, “an invitation?”

He seems to consider it for a moment, long enough for Quentin to think maybe he fucked up and then he’s abruptly being pulled into a kiss, Eliot’s unlubed hand twists roughly into his hair. He melts into it with a moan.

Eventually, Eliot’s mouth scrapes across his jaw to his ear, the hand in his hair pulling experimentally, “Color?”

“ _Green_ ,” he pants, eyes half open, “you can pull harder.”

He does and Quentin can’t even be embarrassed by the noise he makes before Eliot lets him go, watching him ragdoll back onto the mattress and climbing off him entirely.

“Get on your stomach. Hands back on the headboard when you’re ready.” Quentin doesn’t think he’s ever followed an order so quickly.

He can’t see Eliot from the angle his head is at, but he feels him straddle his parted thighs, hears the lube click open and closed again. He can’t help but press his hips against the mattress, trying to take the edge off the anticipation.

The blunt nails of Eliot’s dry hand scrape down his back, almost too short to hit the skin at all and not nearly hard enough to do more than tease, “Be patient, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

Lubed fingers tease circles around his hole. Nails scrape from his back to the flesh of his ass, squeezing and kneading and pulling him apart so Eliot can see. Quentin’s universe narrows to the slow rhythm of Eliot’s fingers pressing against, but never inside him. He’d rather be on his hands and knees, able to press back onto Eliot. He has no leverage like this, no ability to do anything but grind into the sheets.

“Tease,” he accuses after what feels like an eternity with nothing inside of him.

Immediately, a hand comes down to smack his ass, “Behave.” 

It’s barely a warning, a reminder of who’s in charge, but the sharp surprise of it, the potential makes Quentin whimper. He’s tempted to mouth off more, goad Eliot into putting him in his place again, but he wants Eliot’s fingers in him more than he wants to be spanked. He resolves to be good, “Please.”

He’s rewarded immediately with the slow press of a finger into him. It’s only the tip, up to the first knuckle, but it’s an improvement over nothing.

Eliot strokes softly over where his hand had landed, “See, you just had to ask nicely.”

Quentin isn’t above begging, but he hadn’t expected to be doing it so soon. He feels a thumb press into his perineum again, a push in the right direction, “More. Please, El.”

He’s rewarded immediately, the finger sinking steadily all the way in. It’s nowhere near enough, but it’s a start, an _almost_. Eliot tap tap taps against his prostate, just once every few strokes. It’s like a match on dry kindling, setting a small fire under his skin. It’s enough to have a string of nonsense _yes, please, Eliot, fuck_ falling from his mouth after a few minutes.

Eliot pushes a second finger in alongside the first, curving them immediately to where they should be and Quentin marvels at the stretch, the slow fill of fingers and _Eliot Eliot Eliot_. He’s rocking back into them as much as he can in this position, the steady friction dragging his cock against the bed in time with it. 

He feels a tug at his hair, it’s supposed to get his attention, he thinks, but he’s distracted by the shiver it sends through him. 

“Grind as much as you want but don’t come without permission.” he nods in acknowledgement, pleased when the motion pulls at his scalp again.

Eliot doubles down once Quentin accepts the rule, stretching his rim and stroking over his prostate in turn, neither ever for quite long enough to soothe the empty ache of want in Quentin. Nevertheless, he feels himself inching closer to the edge. 

Despite the pull in the pit of his stomach beckoning him to let himself orgasm and accept the consequences, the desire to please is stronger, “Eliot, I’m close.”

He expects Eliot to back off, but his fingers don’t even stutter. The only response Quentin gets is a simple, “Don’t come yet.”

He whines at the unfairness of it, trying to still his hips against the sheets. Even just the press of his cock against the mattress inches him closer, though. Thinking through the haze, he decides quickly that his only chance is to shift up and get his knees beneath him, put space between his dick and the bed. 

He shuffles his legs, but the leverage just isn’t there. His brain is a fuzzy loop of _don’t come, don’t come, don’t come_ and he blames that and the maddening come hither of fingers against his prostate for the lapse in judgement that has him bracing himself up with one hand against the mattress.

Before Quentin can wrap his head around what he’d done wrong — _hands on the headboard_ — Eliot’s hand is cracking down against the skin of his ass. It’s not a warning this time and the pain blooms harsh and unexpected on his skin. He feels himself clench on Eliot’s fingers, hand scrambling to find its way back to the wooden slats of the headboard. It happens almost in slow motion, the sharp edge of the pain sending shivers through him, the press of fingers against his prostate.

He comes.

It hits him like a train, destructive and sudden and heavy against every inch of skin. Eliot tangles a hand in his hair and chastises him low under his breath, but still his fingertips curl rhythmically against his prostate, working him through it. 

Once it’s over, he’s yanked backwards by the hand in his hair, pulled tight against Eliot’s chest behind him. He’s floating, but he’s aware enough to know he fucked up, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

He’s cut off by a sharp pull against his scalp, “I gave you two instructions, Quentin.”

His full name sends a shudder through him. He presses back into Eliot apologetically, feeling the length of his hard cock push into his back.

Teeth scrape against his shoulder, biting marks where his clothes will hide them, “Remind me, what did I ask you to do?”

“Keep my hands on the headboard and don’t come,” he recites with as much apology and obedience as he can push into the words, head feeling light even through the disappointment in Eliot’s voice.

Eliot hums against his throat, “And you disobeyed on both accounts.”

“I’m sorry,” he tilts his head back onto the shoulder behind him, hoping Eliot will take his submission for the apology it is.

“What’s your color, Quentin?” the fingers in his hair massage against his scalp.

He doesn’t even have to consider, “Green.”

Eliot pushes him forward, separating them, “Blow me.”

His limbs are heavy, but with some maneuvering he manages to settle between Eliot’s thighs, taking his cock into his mouth as quickly as he can manage with shaky limbs.

“That’s it, baby, show me how sorry you are.” Eliot buries a hand in his hair, guiding the pace of his head as he moves. _Fuck_ Quentin had forgotten how much he’d loved blowing Eliot. He runs his tongue along every inch as Eliot slides in and out of him, committing it to memory better this time.

“I would have made you come- _fuck,_ ” 

—Quentin sucks the tip apologetically, pressing his tongue firmly along the soft skin—

“-over and over again just like last time.”

“But you don’t deserve that now, do you, Q?” a thumb presses against his bottom lip and he looks up to Eliot’s eyes just as he’s working the frenulum, watches as Eliot’s mouth falls open.

“God, your mouth feels so good, baby,” the praise floats straight to Quentin’s head and he hums appreciatively until Eliot pushes too deep for the sound to survive. If he were more coherent, Quentin would be thankful his gag reflex decided to behave. As much as he enjoys having a dick in his mouth, he’s never done it consistently enough to get comfortable deep throating.

He’s too out of it to really think about that though, or about anything that isn’t the tug of Eliot’s hand in his hair, pulling him back and forth with just enough force to pool heat low in Quentin’s belly. He lets his eyes drift closed again, loses himself in the rhythm and let’s Eliot just use his mouth.

He comes to the surface when Eliot pulls him off, hand holding his jaw and thumb back against his swollen lips, “Hands and knees.” 

He moves quickly despite the fuzziness in his brain, eager to please after letting Eliot down earlier. He feels a hand run over his flank as he shifts into position, fingers pressing hard into the flesh. 

“Do you think you’ve made up for disobeying, Q?” Quentin tries to guess what Eliot wants him to say, but his voice doesn’t give away the correct answer.

It takes him a long time to string a sentence together. Minutes, probably, but Eliot seems to be in no hurry. Quentin absently hears the slow noises of jerking off behind him. 

Finally, he manages, “It’s not up to me to decide when you forgive me.”

He’s not quite sure it’s what Eliot was expecting, but it seems to be the right answer, “So you _do_ know who’s in charge.”

There’s a resounding crack as a hand comes down hard against him one last time with a fresh flood of endorphins. Eliot drapes himself over his back, kissing against the knob at the base of his neck, “Just a reminder.”

Hands run up his chest, so soft a foil to before. He feels light with every press of the mouth against his back, overwhelmed by the level of contact between them, “I assume you can come again if I let you?” 

It takes him a minute to get the word out and his voice sounds far away even to his own ears, “Yeah,”

He wraps a hand around his mostly-soft cock at the reminder, “Green,” he adds before Eliot can ask again.

There’s more lube and a crinkle of foil and then the fat bluntness of Eliot is pressing into him slowly. It’s not enough prep, barely two fingers, but Quentin is still relaxed from his orgasm and greedy for the stretch, greedy for _him_. Eliot bottoms out with a groan.

They take the time to adjust, Eliot grinding in him soft and deep in a way that sends sparks up his spine until he’s panting out a, _“Please, El,”_ that’s met with proper thrusts, finally.

He drops down onto his elbows, pressing his face into the sheets. This is how Quentin likes to be fucked. There’s something about the angle, the leverage, the disconnect that a lack of eye contact allows. His world narrows to the join of their hips, the slide of Eliot thick and perfect inside of him. 

He feels a hand grab his hair again and pull his head back, feels Eliot curl his body over him, chest to back, “You just love this, don’t you?”

He whines in affirmation, beyond the point of intentional words. He used to be self-conscious of this, how eager sex makes him, how easily his body comes undone in the hands of the right person. He’s not self-conscious now, the fog in his brain is to thick and heavy for him to feel anything but euphoria in how every touch sparks over his skin. Not with the smirk in Eliot’s voice and the edge of his own desperation behind it. Not with the frantic way his free hand moves over every inch of his body it can reach. Not with the increasingly arrhythmic stutter of his hips betraying his own eagerness. 

Eliot’s hands find their way to his hips, shifting him until the angle of his thrusts forces a moan from Quentin’s mouth.

“Is that good, baby?” Eliot sounds wrecked, like he definitely should have come already, “I’m so close Q, I just wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, can you do that for me?”

It doesn’t matter that Quentin’s already come, or that he can’t usually come untouched at all without working up to it. He’s so close and Eliot’s so thick and perfect inside him. Even if he wasn’t so desperate to please right now, he’d be careening towards the edge anyway. He feels Eliot press against his back, hand finding its way back to his hair and pulling, mouth pressing filthy praises against his neck. The orgasm rolls through him like a tide pressing inland, creeping further and further until it’s a tidal wave, tearing down cities in the wake of its force. 

He feels Eliot shaking behind him, groaning broken and sharp into his shoulder and pressing deepdeepdeep into him. Their bodies ebb and flow together until it leaves them in a sweat slick heap.

Quentin doesn’t register much until the comforting press of weight on top of him shifts and there’s a sudden pull of dread twisting thick in his gut. Something must give him away because there are fingers carding through his hair and kisses pressed soft and reassuring against his temple until he’s calm, “Condom, Q, I’ll be right back,” 

Awareness leeches slowly back into his bones. By the time Eliot comes back —thankfully with a towel and a glass of water— he’s more or less lucid. He lets Eliot take care of him though, it’s easier now than it was last time, despite the years-long gap. He drinks the water gratefully while Eliot makes good use of the towel. He relaxes into in as Eliot pulls them to spoon and doesn’t protest when he draws the duvet over them even though Quentin isn’t cold.

“How are you?” comes the soft question once they’ve settled. 

Quentin’s grasp on time isn’t the best, but he knows it’s early, probably before dinnertime even. Too early to justify falling asleep like this no matter how much he’s tempted, “Good, that was… wow.” 

He feels Eliot huff a laugh into his hair between kisses, “Such a way with words, I don’t know how I couldn’t tell you were an author last time.”

He snorts, lacing their fingers together without thinking, “Ass. No but really, it’s been too long since I had someone get me out of my head like that. Thanks.”

There’s no way he’d have had the nerve to say it if they’d been face to face.

“I do aim to please. It’s far easier with someone as responsive as you though.” Quentin warms at the compliment. Eliot must notice the shift in his posture because he starts to murmur little praises against his hair, just loud enough to be heard.

They lay like that for longer than Quentin had let himself hope they would before Eliot suggests food. He almost pouts, catching himself at the last second. Spooning is aftercare, it’s a necessity for his wellbeing. he won’t let himself fall into thinking any of this means anything more than it did before.

He pulls himself out of bed and shuffles around to find his underwear, pretty sure that _that_ at least had still been on when they got to the bedroom.

“Your phone is ringing,” Eliot says from the bed, where he’s still sprawled, naked and rakish despite being the one to insist they get up.

“Who is it?” he asks absently, torn between looking at Eliot and looking for clothing.

Eliot rolls toward the nightstand to peer at Quentin’s phone, “Someone named Alice.”

Fuck.


	5. Interlude: keep me in your skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years ago, Quentin wakes up alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, life has been a bit *gunshot* *cash register* lately but I'm back.  
> Chapter title from Crash by You Me at Six, a song that is very relevant to this fic as a whole and, in retrospect, would have been a much better source for a title.

Quentin wakes up to a bed that’s cold and empty apart from rumpled sheets.

He’d figured this was a one night stand. Eliot hadn’t led him on any more than Quentin had led  _ him _ on in return, but he’d been hoping to at least exchange numbers. 

Or blowjobs.

He tries not to let it sting. He’s gotten good at talking down the little part of him that whispers in his ear —

— _ you’re not even good in bed, and not nearly attractive enough to be in his league of course he left as soon as he could _ —

—but it’s not something that ever goes away. 

He tries anyway. Tries to focus instead on reality. The scent of hotel sheets, the birds outside the window, the offensively plain painting on the wall, how loose his body feels. He’s more relaxed than he has been in ages and his head is remarkably clear despite the disappointment of waking up alone.

When he checks his phone he has three texts from Julia—

_ Did you seriously ditch me for the pretty guy?  _

_ I had to accept an award for you, I really hope the dick is good _

_ Text me when you wake up so I know he didn’t steal your kidney _

And fuck, of course, the  _ award _ , the whole reason he had to be here in the first place. 

Since the book came out his life has been a nonstop series of tour dates and charity events and award galas. He’s honestly stopped keeping track of what’s what and at this point mostly just tries to show up where and when his Google calendar says he’s supposed to.

_ All organs still intact  _

_ Shit, I thought the award thing was next week _

_ (And that I wouldn’t win anyway, my bad) _

_ Meet you at the continental breakfast?  _

_ Unless you have other plans?  _

The last message ends with the winky emoji, which honestly just circles his thoughts back to the empty sheets. He really isn’t ready to get out of bed yet, it’s warm and unusually comfortable for a hotel mattress. 

It smells like Eliot and sweat and generic hotel detergent.

_ Sure _

Julia is already downstairs when he arrives. Before he can even apologize for ditching her, she’s wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Please don’t,” he begs.

“You left me to go up on stage for you, Q. Completely unprepared. While you got laid. I get to make fun of you literally forever.” 

He hates that it really doesn’t seem that unreasonable.

“Worth it,” he mutters as they make their way to the buffet. 

She wasn’t supposed to hear it, but he knows immediately that he wasn’t quiet enough. 

“That good huh?” the eyebrow wiggles return. The next time her mom tries to convince her that no one is ever too young for botox, he’s  _ absolutely _ encouraging it.

“Good enough that even waking up alone didn’t ruin it,” he admits. Julia gets what she wants, one way or another. He knows by now it’s easier to acquiesce.

She looks like she’s going to say something heartfelt for a second, but she must decide to let it go for now, “See, being single has its perks. Now, give me details.”

He rolls his eyes, choosing to ignore the  _ Alice _ side of that comment because it stings more than she probably meant it to, “I am  _ not _ giving you details over breakfast, Jules, that’s so weird.”

“Oh please, I told you everything when I slept with  _ Pete _ ,” she adds a croissant to her plate. He’d kind of forgotten they were supposed to be getting food and starts grabbing at whatever looks easily edible.

“And I definitely did  _ not _ ask you to,” there was a time when the idea of exchanging sexy anecdotes with Julia would have dually thrilled and heartbroken him, but the older they get, the more she feels like a sister. Which doesn’t make it that much less  _ weird, _ but he’s not desperately picturing her naked or wallowing in unrequited love so he considers it a net win for their friendship overall.

They make their way over to a table in the hotel dining area, rehearsing a well worn argument about whether or not he’s obligated by the terms of their friendship to kiss and tell. It’s mostly a farce to soothe his conscience. It lets him say he at least tried to fend off her nosiness. 

Julia has long been his not-so-objective confidant, and he hers. From the first time she kissed a girl back when he was still half in love with her —confusing for both of them on so many levels— to when Poppy Kline had dunked him headfirst into bondage. He knows processing together works out better for them than processing apart.

“Okay,” he gives in as they sit, going straight for his coffee, “ask away.”

Her response is immediate, “Scale of one to ten?”

He laughs because  _ rating  _ a sexual experience is so freshman year of college, but he humors her, “like seventeen.”

“Oh really?”

He hums, avoiding her eyes and trying not to flush because he’s an adult god dammit, “Maybe. It was easy. Like even though we didn’t know each other we just worked, like physically.”

She calmly takes a sip of her own coffee, processing, “Was his dick as big as I’m guessing?”

“Jesus Jules what the fuck.” 

Her stare doesn’t falter.

“Bigger —which is  _ super weird to ask _ and I’m only telling you because I don’t think he’d mind. Are you done being nosy now?”

She whistles, “Not nearly. You tell me this is the best sex of your life and expect me not to want details.“

“I didn’t  _ say  _ that,”

She raises an eyebrow, “Better than the weekend upstate?”

He was trying to avoid a conscious comparison, but now he thinks about it. Their second anniversary, Alice trusting him enough to ask for what she wanted. 

That night still kind of stands in a separate category to his other sexual experiences. Realizing he did like to be in control sometimes, that it could get him out of his head in a different way.

“Hard to compare.” he chews his bacon —overdone, crispy and sharp— and the conversation flows elsewhere. 

* * *

Something pools in Quentin’s gut as he pulls into his driveway. It’s not dread  _ exactly _ but it’s close enough to be unpleasant.

Alice’s car sits next to his, cold and settled and waiting.

It’s unlike her to show up unannounced after a fight. After a break up especially (and he hates that they’ve broken up enough times for him to know that). Even if she wanted to get back together, waiting in his house (not  _ their _ house, there’s an apartment in the city they’ve fought about more than once) isn’t like her.

So he doesn’t know what to expect when he walks in through the foyer to the living room, leaving his suitcase by the door, “Alice?”

“Q, hi,” she’s curled up in her favorite blanket on the couch, her voice soft, “I wasn’t sure what time you’d get in, but I made pasta. It should still be warm if you’re hungry?”

Something in his chest tightens. 

Alice doesn’t cook. For all the things she’s good at, pasta is about the most complicated thing she can make.

It’s a peace offering. An apology. 

He’s overrun with  _ guilt _ all of a sudden. His breakfast conversation with Julia seems cruel now.

“I- do you-” he doesn’t know where to start, everything is fighting to come out of his mouth at once, choking out any meaningful sound.

He takes a deep breath, “Is this your way of saying you want to get back together?”

“What do you mean ‘back together,’ Quentin?” 

His heart is hammering in his chest, realization creeping in at the edges of his mind, “You broke up with me Alice, what the fuck?”

The blanket slides softly to the floor as she shuffles to her feet, “No I didn’t-”

“Yes you did.” he remembers the conversation with perfect clarity. Things had been tense for, god, he doesn’t even know how long. Weeks, maybe. It was almost a relief when they finally fought it out. 

“You said we weren’t working and you needed space. You needed a break from us.” 

Her brow twitches in that small, know-it-all way that means she’s frustrated, “I  _ said _ you might as well take Julia to the stupid dinner thing because we could use the break.”

“As in the week apart.” he realizes, “Not as in like  _ a break _ .” 

Part of him wants to say nevermind. He could eat the pasta and fall asleep with her every night for the rest of his life. For a moment, he yearns to bury the gala, and Eliot, as deep as he can, down where it can’t hurt her. 

He doesn’t want to fight, but in his bones he feels it: they can’t avoid this one. 

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . 

The weight of it crushes him, he almost can’t look at her, “I’m so sorry.”

Her face hardens, like a wall coming up between them. Like she’s putting it together and hoping she’s wrong, “Why are you apologizing?” 

“I thought you broke up with me. I didn’t realize-” he’s trying to apologize before he even tells her, like that might earn her forgiveness. 

“What did you do?” and she sounds so accusatory, like this is his fault. And it  _ is, _ fuck, he should have _ listened  _ to her.

For all the bad, all the fights and the frustration and the silence that stretches between them, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. The best part of his life.

“I slept with someone.” 

And with that, everything crashes. The rest of the fight goes in a blur. 

_ “Don’t fucking tell me you love me Quentin when you jumped at the first chance to hop into bed with someone else.” _

He feels like they yell at each other for hours. 

_ “Was it Julia?” _

_ “Jesus, Alice. No, of course not.”  _

_ “Who was it?” _

She’s angry and spitefully and worst of all  _ hurt _ and fuck he  _ knows _ . He’s met her parents. Has held her in the dark while she told him about her mom’s affair. Her parents philandering and jealousy and tenuous polyamory. He’d cut her in the worst place, surgically precise without ever meaning to.

_ “It’s not going to make you feel better.” _

_ “It’s better than not knowing.” _

Her voice is breaking and, for a second, he hopes. He hopes if he’s honest, if they can clear the air and she can see that it didn’t matter and it was a mistake and a fucking  _ miscommunication _ they can get through this and maybe it won’t be the biggest mistake of his life.

_ “Just. Someone I met at the awards.” _

Her face is stony, waiting for him to continue. 

_ “His name was Eliot. I don’t even know his last name because it meant nothing, it was just sex. ”  _

It sounds so pathetic even to his own ears. He hates that he can’t say anything other than a fucking cliche to make it better. He hates that he can’t  _ fix this _ .

_ “I swear it never would have happened if I thought we were still together, I-” _

_ “It never would have happened if you hadn’t decided to do it. Just admit that you wanted me to break up with you.” _

_ “Don’t say that because you know it isn’t true. Alice, I fucking love you. Even in the back of my mind the whole time I was thinking we’d work it out-”  _

He immediately he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. If there was anything that might have saved them, that set it up in flames. The floodgates open and there’s nothing he can do to take it back. 

It becomes a mixtape of every fight they’ve ever had, every bit of hurt and annoyance from the past four years, forgiven or unresolved, rears its head. Every insecurity and grudge between them comes out of its cave to have its moment in the sun.

_ “You’re not a fucking prize Alice, fuck. I love you. I want to marry you. I bought this house for you. You’re the one that won’t fucking commit.”  _

They fight for so long that his guilt and desperation bleeds into anger. At himself, at the situation, at her.

_ “Why did you do it, Quentin? That’s what I don’t get,” _

_ “I don’t know what you want me to say. Because I was fucking sad and he was there? Because I wanted to feel wanted?” _

_ “So it’s my fault for not wanting you enough?” _

Maybe if things hadn’t been so bad to begin with he would have backed down, given her space. Tried to show her that he can do better. But he’s so fucking tired and he made a mistake and she  _ never understood _ .

_ “You pushed me away so hard I thought you fucking left me, Alice. I only even thought we’d get back together because we always have every other time you decided I was too needy or too unworthy of your attention.” _

They’re past the point of no return now. He can feel it in his bones, this is it.

_ “Fuck you, Quentin. You cheated on me, I can’t just forgive you because you tell me you love me.” _

He can’t hold that against her. He knows she’s right, he doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but he’s beyond that now. It’s just not worth it anymore. He loves her.  _ Fuck, _ he loves her and it’s not enough to save them.

_ “Of course not, because you never do.” _

_ “What’s that supposed to mean?” _

_ “You never let anything go. Everything I do you just file it away for the next time we fight so you can make sure you have the fucking moral highground. Because god forbid Alice Quinn has to admit she’s wrong.” _

_ “Don’t play the victim, Q, You’re the one who went and stuck your dick in a stranger, not me-” _

He’s already hurt her so goddamn much, more than she’s hurt him, but something about the bluntness, the way she throws it in his face makes something in him snap. It breaks the last little bit of him that would suffer through anything for her to take him back. 

If she’s going to let them burn to the ground, he might as well pour on the gasoline.

_ “He stuck his dick in me, actually.” _

_ “Don’t tell me this, Quentin.” _

_ “Oh now you don’t want the details? You don’t want me to tell you that when he held me down and fucked me it was the happiest I’ve felt in months?” _

She slaps him. 

He doesn’t blame her.

“I think you should go.”


End file.
